Chapter 228

Taking the dagger Hu Qiao handed over, Lang Ze’s eyes flashed with a trace of surprise.

Among avian bones used as unique crafting materials, most carry distinct traits.

For instance, the crimson-feathered bird bones—Chi Niao gu—though only middling in quality, each bears a thin red line. Any weapon forged from them exudes a faint, bloody scent. That trait, more than their dark-red wings, is why the birds are named Chi Niao.

But among bird bones, there is one true anomaly: Xuan Niao.

The bones of a Xuan Niao come in two parts. Their black bones are well known—that’s where the name comes from. But few know that their spines are snow-white.

The Xuan Niao spine bones are said to be the strongest bones on the beast continent. Yet they look utterly ordinary. By eye alone, one cannot distinguish them from common beast bones.

That’s why Qi Bai’s precious bone knife—crafted from one such spine—was never recognized by outsiders.

But concealment doesn’t change its essence. A true weapon, no matter how plain its look, cannot hide what it is.

This dagger in Lang Ze’s hand was dense, icy cold, its blade dull-looking yet sharper than steel. It could only be made from a Xuan Niao spine.

Lang Ze was sure—this knife was forged from the same material as Qi Bai’s.

Though Qi Bai hadn’t used his little bone knife much recently, when they first arrived in Heishan—when no one had tools—the earliest tribesmen had all seen it.

No wonder Hu Qiao mistook it. It wasn’t just the material—the shape of this dagger was exactly identical to Qi Bai’s.

Lang Ze frowned. On this campaign, he had only brought along the felt snow leopard Qi Bai gave him. He hadn’t taken any of Qi Bai’s bone tools. So this dagger could not be Qi Bai’s.

The dagger was plain, unadorned with patterns. The shape was a little odd, but since beastmen usually carved their own tools, strange weapon-shapes were common. And later Qi Bai had forged iron blades of similar design. So Lang Ze wouldn’t normally have paid it much mind.

But now, to see the same dagger appear in Sanghuo, thousands of li away—he couldn’t ignore it.

He tucked the dagger inside his hide armor. “Where exactly did you find this?” he asked Hu Qiao.

Hu Qiao pointed behind him. “In the tent where we grabbed the city envoy yesterday.”

“Take me there.”

Qiu Bai watched Lang Ze and Hu Qiao go inside, then chose to wait by the door.

Last night they’d rushed in and out, never inspecting the tent. Now, after a night, three slaves still huddled inside. Two hid behind a hide curtain; one sat dazed, hugging his knees, not even noticing the intruders.

“Here,” Hu Qiao said, pointing to the spot where Lang Ze had subdued the envoy.

Lang Ze rifled through the furs there. A small pouch of strange powder fell out.

Powder wasn’t quite right—it was hard, gritty, more like slag left from smelting.

“What’s that?” Hu Qiao peered closer.

Lang Ze didn’t know either. He rewrapped it and tucked it away with the dagger. “This must have been the envoy’s quarters. Gather everything. Take it all back to the tribe.”

“Got it!”

Before leaving, Lang Ze glanced at the three slaves. He told Hu Qiao: “Check them. Bring them to Lang Ji. Have them watched separately.”

He didn’t expect they’d hidden anything—last night, chaos raged outside, yet even the roasted reindeer inside remained untouched. Clearly, these three were scared witless.

Still, they’d had direct contact with the envoy and the scarred-faced woman. They might hold useful scraps of information.

Lang Ze stepped out. Qiu Bai quickly joined him. Just then, Xiong Qi came running too.

By now, everyone from all tribes knew: when something important arose, find Lang Ze.

Sure enough, only moments after the Sanghuo were corralled, Xiong Han had sent Xiong Qi to fetch him.

Though the main battle had raged outside, Yungu’s leopard warriors had fought hard inside, cutting off Sanghuo reinforcements and sowing havoc.

The camp was wreckage—collapsed tents everywhere.

They found Xiong Han standing on a snapped tent pole, gnawing a lamb shank with gusto.

Truth be told, Sanghuo’s stores of food were massive. Of course, most had been stolen from smaller tribes. That only made Xiong Han eat more righteously.

Lu Teng and Yun Jing were beside her, chewing roasted meat. Since the midnight assault, none of them had paused till now. Excited though they were, their stomachs had long been growling.

Seeing Lang Ze, the three wiped their mouths and greeted him in unison: “Lang Ze.”

Lu Teng frowned at the teeming crowd. “The adult horned warriors of Sanghuo are all dead, but there are still so many of their people left. And with the slaves from the west… there are just too many.”

Sanghuo had once been nearly ten thousand strong. Now less than two thousand remained—fewer than the western slaves alone. But combined, it was still a massive number.

By custom, when tribes warred, all survivors aside from adult warriors became spoils—slaves for the victors.

That meant four tribes could split nearly a thousand each.

But Lu Teng winced. Julu itself only numbered fifteen hundred. He dreaded bringing home more slaves than clansmen. His chieftain and priest would likely throw him out along with them.

Xiong Han, on the other hand, cared less about numbers—most were women and children, no threat to their massive warriors. Her concern was food:

“Dragging them north will slow us down, and they’ll eat too much. Half of them will probably die along the way—wasting supplies for nothing.”

After Zhanxiong and Julu spoke, Yun Jing added: “Yungu just migrated. We have no space for Sanghuo captives either.”

Lang Ze then said: “Heishan will take the slaves. We’ll ask for fewer rations in return.”

Qiu Bai’s eyes flashed with hatred as he looked at his former masters. To think these scum might now become Heishan’s slaves—far too merciful. He’d rather see them all dead.

But he misunderstood Lang Ze’s meaning. Yun Jing, thoughtful, asked: “Then how do you plan to handle them?”

Xiong Han and Lu Teng hesitated. Slaves weren’t worth much, but such a horde… killing them all outright seemed too wasteful.

“I have an idea,” Yun Jing said, pointing west. “Sunset City is still under construction. They must need slaves badly. Why not trade the Sanghuo captives there?”

Lu Teng’s eyes lit up. Brilliant—what burdened them would be nothing to a city. And they could get supplies in return—ideally, more salt.

“How far is Sunset City?” asked Lang Ze.

Their campaign route was carefully planned. If they lingered too long in Beihuang, the Heishan clans might assume the worst.

The other tribes he could not speak for, but Qi Bai would never sit waiting. Lang Ze feared he might even come searching.

“With Heishan’s carts,” Yun Jing calculated, “ten days. In ten days, I can bring Xushan people back.”

Though they said “trade to Sunset City,” her real goal was Xushan. That tribe, now resettled outside Sunset, was still tied to them. And closer than the city proper—ten days was nothing on this vast continent.

Would Xushan accept Sanghuo slaves? Yun Jing thought yes.

They hated Sanghuo most of all—the ones who had stolen their homeland. They’d rejoice to see them in chains.

And even if they couldn’t use so many, they could resell them, maybe even profit.

Everyone turned to Lang Ze. The decision lay with him.

He thought a moment. Ten days was long, but they could make up time on the return march.

“Fine,” Lang Ze nodded. “This time, prioritize food in exchange. I’ll send Ma Ling with you.”

Lu Teng frowned. “But we already captured so much food from Sanghuo. Shouldn’t we trade for salt instead?”

Lang Ze shot him a flat look. “And Heishan’s salt isn’t enough for you?”

He strode off, leaving the three staring at each other in dawning realization.

Of course. Heishan’s specialty was salt. To run off and buy elsewhere would be undercutting them.

They all smacked their foreheads.

Right then. Buy salt—from Heishan. Buy a lot.